‘And then?’ Bolton said coolly. ‘We’ve marines, armed seamen – do we then at our leisure step ashore and take the capital?’
‘I shall be clearer. The flying column lands and makes straight for the base. That is essential. The rest depends on planning and forethought, with the ability to change objectives at short notice. As I said, I’ve given it much consideration. Here are the details, gentlemen.’
Brisbane produced a scheme from his desk that was a model of military planning. Each ship had its own task: Arethusa would lead and tackle the thirty-six. L’Aurore, the lightest, would follow with the vital task of landing the flying column when practicable. The heavyweight Anson would be next, anchoring mid-channel to menace the worst of the opposition, while Fisgard would take the rear and go to the support of any in difficulty.
At the individual level, each ship’s company’s Royal Marines and seamen would be divided between ‘boarders’ and ‘stormers’ and a skeleton working crew, enabling snap decisions to be made on the spot for their deployment depending on progress.
‘And when the forts wake up?’ Lydiard said, with a half-smile. ‘When we’re at anchor at point-blank range? This is a target even a militiaman may not miss.’
‘An observation well made,’ Brisbane said smoothly. ‘This is why each ship will contribute to a party armed with crowbars and axes who will force entrance into the sea-gate of Fort Amsterdam through the portcullis while the Fisgards storm the rear of the fortress with ladder and grapnel.’
There were gasps but whether in shock or admiration it was difficult to tell.
‘Recollecting that this fort is intended to defend to seaward – we shall be assaulting from landward.’
‘And the other?’ persisted Lydiard.
‘Fort Republiek will be helpless, as being unable to fire on account of ourselves being within the town limits.’
In the cool of the night, there was a gentle, lulling heave to the sea and it seemed preposterous to believe that they had any kind of a chance – Kydd’s experience at the assault and conquest of another Dutch outpost of empire, Cape Town, had shown him how only the professional military had what it took to conduct an advance on the enemy in their own territory. By comparison they were amateurs – courageous, spirited and intelligent, but amateurs for all that.
‘Everything depends on our forcing entry past the fort,’ Bolton said slowly. ‘If we knew that was assured …’
‘It’ll be assured if we do it,’ Kydd snapped. ‘Clap on all sail and press on and we can’t fail.’
Unsaid was what would happen if they penetrated into the desperately restricted waters inside but then found it untenable to remain. To turn completely about by some means and effect a retreat under overwhelming fire …
As morning imperceptibly lightened the tropical seascape in a soft violet, the four frigates hove to ten miles off Curaçao, south of Willemstad and the channel, and safely out of sight.
There was that preternatural heightening of the senses as always felt before an action, but Kydd had much to occupy his mind.
Details: the division of seamen into boarders and stormers, the equipping of the boatswain’s party with the right gear, the clearing away of an anchor for rapid letting go and more – down to the colour of the field sign that each man would wear.
Last, every single boat the ship possessed was put into the water for towing.
They were ready.
Brisbane was not one for ceremony, and it was his single flag ‘preparative’ whipping down in Arethusa that set the little armada on its way.
By degrees the light strengthened, and when they made landfall, visibility in the mists of morning was enough. Formless as a dream, the rumpled coast gradually took on reality. The channel entrance was impossible to miss, the gentle fall each side in the even run of the shoreline unmistakable – as was the squat menace of Fort Amsterdam firming out of the haze.
They were committed.
Arethusa took the lead, L’Aurore fell in close astern and the others followed, arrowing on a line of bearing straight for the channel entrance. A quiet torpor seemed to lie on the day-fresh landscape – not a thing moved. They came closer; a Dutch flag drooped atop the fort. Arethusa and each ship following had battle-ensigns a-fly but hoisted at the main-mast head of each was a large white flag of truce, a legitimate move that Brisbane hoped would confuse and delay any response. But it was at the cost of preventing any British ship opening fire while such a flag flew.
Nearer still, and not a gun had fired. Ahead, however, by the seaward entrance, just as Brisbane had foreseen, the thirty-six was moored athwart, its broadside squarely across their track. Beyond, the spars of the corvette were in a similar position, and both had left a space clear for ships to pass.